


An Attitude of Gratitude

by miss_janey



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Friends to Lovers, KaraMel, Karamel Fanfiction challenge, Roommates, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 14:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11556714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_janey/pseuds/miss_janey
Summary: Mon-El hates Thanksgiving.Unfortunately for him, Kara loves it.





	An Attitude of Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm so sorry this is out so late. Work has been hectic this month and I can't write as much as I'd like to.  
> I was actually planning on writing stuff for all the weeks of the challenge, but I guess better late than never.  
> Anyways, here is a mix of Week 2 Roommates AU and Week 3 Best Friends to Lovers AU.  
> Enjoy!

**An Attitude of Gratitude**

> _Be thankful for what you have; you'll end up having more._
> 
> _If you concentrate on what you don't have; you will never, ever have enough._
> 
> _– Oprah Winfrey_

“Come on! Turn that frown upside down,” you plead with your usual cheerfulness. “It’s a time to be thankful, after all.”

I scoff at that. “Oh, yeah? Tell me what I should be so thankful for,” I grouchily reply, sidestepping an even grumpier teenager with her eyes locked on her phone screen. “My father dying or my mother emotionally manipulating me to do her bidding?”

You turn around so fast I get a little whiplashed; your index finger pointing menacingly at my face, narrowing your comet-blue eyes. “No, don’t go there. Don't you dare go there, Mon-El,” you almost hiss the endearing name only you get to call me by. I remember the night we met, the loud music, the amount of alcohol, when you asked me what my name was; it was so noisy, and I was so nervous, you misunderstood my ‘Michael’. How on Earth you thought I meant ‘Mon-El’ still beats me; I mean, the two words do not even rhyme. But… although I’d never admit it, deep down, I love it. I love the fact that it’s something just between us. For the rest of the world I might be Mike Matthews; but for you, I’m just Mon-El. And it doesn’t get much better than that.

“It’s Thanksgiving!” you excitedly exclaim, throwing your arms up in the air. As if this is supposed to suddenly change my mind and miraculously turn me into a Thanksgiving-y person. It won’t.

“It’s not Thanksgiving… yet,” I say, shoving my hands inside the pockets of my jeans and managing a fair –surpassing– impression of the sulking teenager on her phone. “It isn’t until tomorrow. Sorry, I’m saving all my thankfulness for the actual event.”

Like a petulant child, you stomp your right foot down with a  _hmph!_ I almost expect you to take your tongue out at me. You turn around again, and keep walking down the many aisles overflowing with Thanksgiving themed junk. I know that wasn’t the last I’d get to hear from you on the subject; there’s no way that was the end of it. I know you won't let me get away with it that easily. I know you. You're obsessed with Thanksgiving – it’s your favorite holiday of them all, you always remind me. You adore everything about it and what it represents. Despite of my sullen tendencies, I admit that I also kind of like it. I like that you're able to get _this_ excited about a holiday – a holiday that I hate, a holiday that only brings back bad memories – and that you try to restore some of that excitement in the most hopeless of cases: me. It's why I asked for your help. I know you don't mind any of it: the crowds, the long lines, the horrible food. It's like an adventure to you for some weird reason. You revel in it.

The thing is, I'd kind of hoped that I'd say, ‘Hey, I need some help with Thanksgiving dinner.’ And then you'd reply with, ‘Sure, we'll just order out some pizza and potstickers.’ And that’d be it. I'd get to sit back and watch you turn the dining room – that table in the middle of the loft we share – into a semi-respectable place, worthy enough to entertain Her Majesty, Queen Rhea Matthews.

Apparently, it was too much to ask for.

Now, we're shopping for a table centerpiece – remind me to ask you later what exactly a centerpiece is –, for a new tablecloth – ours was too old and stained, according to you –, a big turkey, some wine, and ingredients – gods, so many ingredients – for stuffing – thanks for letting me know I couldn’t rip off my mattress for it – and for pie and for gravy and for cranberry sauce and for mashed potatoes and who knows what else. The whole nine yards. An all-out traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

On the drive in, you were asking me what colors I wanted the decorations to be. I stared at you blankly. You started on about traditional colors vs. modern colors, bright colors vs. muted colors, multi-colors vs. single color – on and on and on. I had no idea how to respond. I was gobsmacked. My color wheel consisted of only six colors: three primary and three secondary. I’d argue black in there too, but I know what you’d say, ‘Black is not a color; a black object absorbs all the colors of the visible spectrum and reflects none of them to the eyes.’ That was the kind of person you were, you did not consider black to be an actual color.

You let out a long suffering sigh, bringing me out of my reverie. “You're just gonna stand there and leave all the work to me, aren't you?”

Yes, Kara Danvers. I'm going to leave it all to you. Because Thanksgiving and all its paraphernalia might be an alien concept to me, but they’re like second nature to you. Yes, I say so, and do not pretend like this is a huge imposition on you, like I’m inconveniencing you. I know that glint in your eyes. You're actually looking forward to this. I can see you practically buzzing with delight, eager to get started. You're humming. You never hum, you never sing – and no, that one drunken impromptu karaoke night in our living room doesn’t count.

I stifle a groan. Everything was okay; recognizing all these quirky little things about you, knowing all there was to know about you, it was  _okay_ – really. Until you went and changed the rules on me. We were good friends. Great friends. Best friends, even. Going back to your sophomore year. When I was new here and unsure of my surroundings; feeling utterly lost like a stray puppy. When I needed a place to live, and you needed a roommate; since your sister was moving in with her girlfriend, Maggie, and you couldn’t afford the place by yourself. I swear, meeting you that night was fate. Three years later and we're like family. _You are my family._ Everything major in either of our lives seems to somehow involve each other and that was _okay_.

Until Alex stopped by for a visit and asked offhandedly, ‘When are you guys gonna get your heads out of your asses and make it official already?’

We laughed it off.

‘We’re never gonna happen! There’s no way,’ you cried, tears of laughter running down your cheeks. It hurt.

It made me wonder what it'd be like to actually  _be with_ _you_. Although, as soon as I saw your almost disgusted expression, I had to get rid of the thought pretty quickly. After that, I went to Eve’s and she was rather energetic in trying to make me forget all about you. But the next morning, the very moment I saw you, the thought reared its ugly head once again, and then it lingered until it became an intrigue, until it became an obsession. I started to imagine you not only in my bed – because it had happened before, rather innocently – but having you in my arms, your legs tangled with mine, your hair brushing up my nose, your hand resting above my heart. Waking up next to you, every morning. Seeing your face last, as I fell asleep every night. Going together to the stupid social functions my mother made me attend, not just as my plus-one because I didn't happen to have a date, but as my partner. _My girlfriend_. Not just my roommate anymore, but _my_ _girlfriend_.

Ha-ha. No. I know what you’d say. I wasn't friend-zoned. Neither of us ever showed any interest in the other. I am certain you never thought of me that way. I definitely was  _not_ friend-zoned, with you holding my balls in your own two hands. Oh, the thought of you holding my balls… never mind.

That’s not all of it. You started to look different, too. I'm sure I wasn't imagining it – even though, maybe, I simply realized you're more than just my friend… you’re more than just Kara.

I clear my throat uncomfortably. There’s something stuck in there. It won’t go away. You look at me with a raised eyebrow, silently requesting some clarification. When none is forthcoming, you just shake your head and give me that smile which is more like a lopsided cheeky grin than an actual smile.

_That_ smile. The one that’s just reserved for me.

Ugh, I hate this. I feel like I constantly need to defend myself for having fallen for you. For example, your hair isn't blond anymore but golden silk and I can't help but imagine what it'd feel like burying my hands in its tresses while holding your lips against mine. How they’d look against your bare back, hanging loosely; or wet, in the shower; or _afterwards_ ; in the morning, spread over the pillow.

Don’t even get me started on your eyes. Because they aren’t just blue. No, they’re like _comets._ Every time I look into them I’m transported to another universe. They’re- you’re _stunning_.

Then you had to go and wear _that dress_  when you went on a date the other night. You know, the black one that hugs your figure perfectly and shows enough skin to be tastefully sexy – not too demure, not too slutty. It’s your go-to dress-to-impress dress. The last time you wore it was for that work dinner with some of the major players in the journalism world. So, the fact you wore that dress means you actually like this guy. Who you met at CatCo, where you work as an assistant for the one and only Cat Grant. He was the new photographer. _James Olsen_. Apparently, he was struggling on his first day. Hell, I'd struggle too if it meant a woman like you was there to help me. (It's irrelevant I'm getting help from you at the moment) And who does this James Olsen think he is anyway? He sounds like an obnoxious self-righteous know-it-all. Definitely looked like one with that stupid smirk on his face when he showed up to pick you up – that bastard. He looked like the cat that got the canary – only it was my canary. And I hate the fact that you had a wonderful time. You haven't been on a date for over a year and then, as soon as I realize my real feelings for you, you decide to go for it.

Of course. That’s just my luck.

“What are you thinking?” You ask me all of the sudden, tilting your head like a curious puppy – a very beautiful puppy. “You look like Edward Cullen whenever he was around Bella.”

“Not far from it,” I say through gritted teeth, half meaning it. “Why can’t we just order take-out?”

“Because it’s Thanksgiving!” A simple answer. “Besides, can you imagine feeding take-out Chinese to your mother? And on Thanksgiving to top it all off?”

We both shudder at that. We know how ruthless and heartless my mother could be. If this were a fairytale, she’d most definitely be the Evil Queen. Rhea Matthews was, for all intents and purposes, the unhinged villain in my story. Always had been. Always will be.

“I don’t get it,” you continue after a beat. “Why do you hate Thanksgiving so much?”

“My father died.” I answer quickly without faltering. You look stricken. You immediately connect the dots. We've spoken about my parents countless times before; drunk, sober, and everything in between. You're the only person who understands. You get it. Now that his death anniversary is upon me once again, I can’t help but confide in you. I spill out the whole truth. You’re the only person I’ve ever told any of this. How it had happened on Thanksgiving morning. How my mother had invited high-profile people to dinner that night at our house. How she didn’t even care my father had died. How nine-year-old me only wanted to grieve for his father but couldn’t. How she made me sit through dinner with complete strangers and pretend everything was fine; her Thanksgiving plans being more important than planning for her husband’s funeral. All the hurt, frustration, rage comes pouring out even though I don’t want to burden you. You're always doing that, without me noticing; drawing me out with one doe-eyed look. You’re good at it. There are no secrets with you, and I like that. I'm glad to have someone like you.

I remember the first time I told you about how abusive my mother was. The sheer awfulness of my childhood. How worse it got after my father had died. Having no one to defend me, to protect me. Having no one. Feeling alone. Being alone. Only you could've taken me to the park, bought me an ice cream, let me voice out loud my darkest inner thought, and then turn to me and say, ‘Feel better, or is there more you've been repressing?’

If only you'd say that again. It'd be the perfect opening for me. But, I don't want you to feel pity after my confession. Oh, who am I kidding? Even if you did, I’d never have the guts to admit my feelings for you right now. Not standing in the middle of a grocery store.

“What changed this year? Why all this effort?” you softly ask, all your annoyance at my grouchy despondency cast aside. You’d never make fun of my relationship with my parents. Everything else is fair game but you know I can't handle being teased on that score. Shrugging, I pick up the first item that comes into view: instant noodles. You immediately reach out and almost forcefully knock the square box out of my hand. As if I’ve offended you somehow by grabbing it. Of course, that only makes me want to actually get the noodles now. I bend down to pick them up, thinking about putting them inside our cart, only to meet with your admonishing face when I stand up. I chuckle as I place the box on its original place, and you're doing it again. Your eyes. I probably could've forgotten all about your arms around my shoulders, and your hands on my chest, and your hair on my pillow, and your incredible legs wrapped around my torso if it weren't for your eyes. You’re like that cat in that movie – that you made me watch – with big, wide, captivating eyes; eyes capable of melting someone like butter. You always say bottling up your emotions is bad, and right now you're looking at me like you can see right through me.

“You said you didn’t have any plans,” I eventually concede, adverting my eyes. “I know how much you love Thanksgiving and I didn’t want you to spend it alone. So, I decided to make dinner for us. Only to realize I don’t know what one is supposed to cook on Thanksgiving. And then- then my mother invited herself over when I mentioned I was having dinner at our place. I just…”

“You wanted to give it another try?” You seem to know that even though it's been years, I still struggle a little every day. I miss my dad. I smile, and you grin back. You nod.

I think I fall in love with you a little more at that.

“So, the turkey!” You say in a sing-song voice, clapping your hands together and rubbing them briskly, all business. “Do you think ten pounds will be enough?”

“Ten pounds?” I retort incredulously. “How many people are you planning on feeding?”

“Mon-El,” you begin with your best chastising tone. “I thought you said you’d leave it all to me.”

I raise my hands up in defeat. Surrendering to you. “Whatever you say.”

“Good call!” You smile brightly. “Turkey is the most important meal of Thanksgiving dinner. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without turkey!”

I smile at your seriousness. I mean, it’s just a dead bird to me. “It doesn’t have to be, though. We can make anything we want, you know? Start a new trend,” I feign ignorance at the indignant look clouding your features. “We can have hot dogs for Thanksgiving.”

“Take that back. _Now_.”

“Or how about some mac and cheese?”

“No, no, no! I will not be party to a turkey-less Thanksgiving. No! It isn’t  _right!_ ”

I can’t hold the laughter in any longer. “Oh, Kara, calm down! I was kidding!” I was slightly serious. You know it. I smile and you wink at me, obviously pleased with yourself. I point at the selection in front of us, “So, which turkey do you want?”

“It’s _your_ Thanksgiving dinner.”

“You’re cooking it.”

“ _We’re_ cooking _your_ Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Ugh, fine,” I whine. I point at the smallest one. “That one will do.”

You cross your arms and lift a very disapproving eyebrow at me. Okay, that’s a no. To be honest, the little fellow looked kind of sad. Very small. Very dead.

I try again. This time, I point at the biggest one. “Than one, then.”

You stand there, mouth agape. I peer at the lifeless bird more closely but still can't find what's glaringly wrong with it. “That turkey is for twenty-five people!”

“Good, I won’t have to cook for at least two weeks,” I chortle at your befuddled look. I pick up a medium-sized turkey and place it on our shopping cart which is already almost filled to the brim. I wave you forward, telling you to pick whatever you want for dessert.

I know what you want. You’re dying to get that expensive imported caramel filled chocolate you love. Your favorite. You’ve been craving it for months but couldn’t afford to indulge in it. Until now.

“Okay, we need to set down some ground rules,” you say biting your lips, and making my fingertips itch. I really want my teeth to be the ones biting those lips. But, you're all business now, totally unaware of the dilemma I’m facing. “What's the budget?”

Money is something of an issue between us. The fact that my family is wealthy didn’t exactly get me into your good graces. Over the years, I’ve learned you can’t buy everything and you've come to realize it is only money. Money comes and goes, and it doesn't really matter; it certainly means nothing to me. I don’t like being treated differently because of it – as if I were a prince. You comply almost too gladly. Helping me find a job I like, and become self-sufficient; it was the best thing you could’ve done for me. I can never thank you enough for that.

Still, a little indulgence every once in a while never hurt anyone. Especially if it makes you so happy.

“None. No budget. Just get what you want.”

I expect you to argue and say that hundreds of dollars spent on one dinner is ridiculous. And it is – but I'm beyond caring how much this is going to cost me and, honestly, whatever it is, it’ll be too small a price to pay to see you this content. You shake your head but can't help but grin at me. “Well, then. Let's do this quickly before you change your mind.”

However, it doesn't happen quickly. You take your time, carefully selecting a color scheme for the ambiance – what is that supposed to mean? –, making sure the napkins and tablecloth and china and candles and centerpieces and flowers – are they really necessary? –, that all of them match, but not matchy-matchy, because that’d be too much – plain tacky. Just matchy enough to look good and coordinated.

Now, I'm torn between loving all this time spent with you, alone, and pulling my hair out in impatience, because really, I don't care if you get the handcrafted candles that cost a fortune. You say they're beautiful but too expensive. You've been weighing in two of them on your hands, trying to pick just one. I reach across and pick both them up, gently depositing them into the trolley. You smile and link your arm through mine. I try not to enjoy it too much. We're comfortable like this. We've always been physically comfortable around each other. You're an overly affectionate person – you hug people in greeting, kiss cheeks in farewell. I didn't like it at first, but like with so many other things you brought me around. ‘There,’ I remember you saying the first time I’d actually hugged you back. ‘Was that so hard?’ For someone who doesn’t get sarcasm at times, you've got a terrific sense of humor.

I come across your favorite chocolates. You haven’t picked them up. I decide to get them for you. Only you don’t think they’re for you, I can see it in the condemning look you throw my way. I can hear you in my head, so clearly, ‘How dare you get _my_ favorite chocolates for another girl?’

I ignore your silent protest and place the fancy box inside the cart.

“If you hurry up, I might be included on the budget also.” I wink. My heart rate kicks up as I try to flirt with you. It's dangerous and exciting and terrifying, all at once.

You don’t take me seriously, of course. You roll your eyes at me. “What happened with Eve? Doesn’t she aim to please you anymore?” You ask sardonically. I answer in the negative and explain that we’re no longer together. You seem surprised. I’m surprised you’re surprised. “I thought you liked her.”

You're blocking my attempt at flirtation. “I did. But I wasn’t in love with her. Besides, it wasn't going to go anywhere. She didn’t want anything serious in the first place. I figured it was best to end it, and also…” I say gingerly, “there's someone else.”

For a moment there, you actually look disappointed. “Honestly, Mon-El. Do you even know how to be single? I don’t know why I bother learning their names.”

_Ouch_. That stung, and I don’t mean the names dig. Your expression. I don't like disappointing you. You don't expect anything more of me than you do of yourself, so whenever you get upset because of me, it kills me. I hate it when you disapprove of something I say or do. “As long as I get your name right, I won’t get into too much trouble.”

“I am not one of your many flings, Mike Matthews. Don't compare me to them, or you really will be in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” I say in mock condescension, trying to lighten the mood. There's no need to defend that last comment because there's nothing to defend: I'm not the man-whore you cut me out to be when we met. Even if I still get teased for it by you. It’s become sort of an inner joke between us. I’m the man-whore. You’re the stuck-up bitch.

“So, for whom are you getting those?”

_You_.

“Me,” I lie instead.

You scoff at that. “You don’t even like chocolate – which I still cannot fathom, by the way.”

“I can try.”

You roll your eyes at me – again. “Are you seriously not gonna tell me?”

“Not yet,” I avoid further conversation on the subject by pushing the trolley towards the check-out line. “I’m waiting to see how it plays out.”

You look at me somewhat stunned – I've never withheld information from you before, particularly when you've openly requested it. But I've changed the topic now and put it back on you. I ask about this James guy, I think I'd rather be having a colonoscopy right now. You smile as you talk about him, telling me you're going on another date this weekend, and I nearly crush the box of chocolates in my hand. I start to panic as my imagination runs wild. You're engaged and asking me to be your _man of honor_. You’re walking down the aisle but you’re not heading towards me. You're gorgeous in your white gown and we’re dancing one last time before your _husband_ whisks you away to your honeymoon. You're pregnant and asking me to be godfather, because you couldn't imagine anyone else fulfilling the role. _Uncle Mon-El._

I'm hyperventilating and delusional. I can't keep quiet anymore. I have to tell you. Before you go out with that jerk again.

You're driving us back to our place and I'm trying to come up with different ways to let you know. So far, I've come up empty-handed and I may resort to just kissing you. Look you in the eyes. Tenderly stroke your cheek. And kiss you. _Just like that._

“Mon-El, are you listening to me?”

_I'm in love with you. I can’t keep being just a friend to you. I can't take it anymore. I’m so in love with you._ You're snapping your fingers in front of my face and I blink stupidly. 

“What?” I ask dumbly.

“You haven’t heard a word I've just said.”

“Did too,” I reply childishly.

“Ah huh. Sure. Which is why you've agreed to help me pick out an outfit for my date with James on Saturday night and… why you're not complaining about the music.”

I pause before groaning in annoyance. “N’Sync? _Again?_ They’re extinct already!” I let out another defeated sigh before reluctantly agreeing to help you look for something to wear for your date. You smile, savoring your second victory of the day. _Bye, Bye, Bye_ is playing and you chuckle at my pained expression. You lower your voice and croon along with JT. It's a rare treat to hear you sing, even if you are only mimicking and clearly not using your actual voice – you never use your real singing voice. Which I know is actually _amazing_.

_You are amazing._

* * *

It’s Thanksgiving Day. I’m cleaning up the kitchen. You keep humming as you set up the table, dancing around the dining room – you must be exceptionally happy if you've kept up the humming thing. I try to convince myself it has nothing to do with your prospective date. I try to stealthily take a photo of you but you're on to me straight away. “I’m just sending a text to my mother,” I come up with. I quickly send the message and admire the picture I’ve taken. You’re a bundle of joy, looking so beautiful. _Absolutely beautiful._

“That's actually a good shot,” you accede, startling me from behind. Another rarity – you acknowledging a decent photo of yourself. I count two unicorn moments since yesterday: your singing and the photo. A _ping_ grabs my attention and I turn to my phone to read my mother’s reply. She has cancelled. I can’t really say I’m surprised. Why would she want to spend a holiday with her only son? That’s preposterous!

As soon as I tell you the news, I expect you to look downcast. Nevertheless, you smile. You hold my hand, leading me to the dining table, and tell me – more like order me – to sit down. We say what we’re thankful for. _I’m thankful for you, Kara._ I carve the turkey. We eat the meal we – you – prepared. And it’s the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.

It’s technically Friday morning. The dawn a few hours from breaking. We are having caramel ice cream on our couch, when you turn back to the table and start tidying up the place. I try to hang in the background, making myself useful by not getting in your way.

“No, sir. I don't think so,” you laugh at me and waggle your index finger dramatically. “You’re not getting out of this one. Get over here and help me, and tell me about this new girl you're suddenly interested in.”

Should I tell you? Or do I subtly flirt with you in the hopes that you'll get the hint and I won't actually have to come out and say the actual words? I walk towards you and take a proffered dirty plate. I warily meet your eye and it's painfully obvious, you don't know at all.

“I'd rather not,” I say, frowning as I scrape the leftover food from the plate into the bin.

“Why? Do I know her?” You pry.

“Yeah, you do.” There's no point lying to you.

You shrug. “So? You don’t think I’d approve of her?”

“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t approve,” I mutter. Feeling the heat rise up in my cheeks. I swallow thickly, gazing at you to judge your reaction. What I see makes my stomach drop and my chest constrict. Your eyes are popping out, your mouth hanging open in shock. You know. You know now. You've figured it out. I keep looking back at you and you're still staring at me, flabbergasted. _I need more wine._

“How could you?” You ask, eventually. “How  _could_ you?”

If this were happening to anyone else, I'd find your high pitched shriek comical. “There's no need to overreact,” I start but you cut me off.

“After all these years, not  _once_ did you even spare her a second glance. No wonder you didn't want to tell me, because you knew I'd bash some sense into that thick skull of yours! What happened? What changed everything? How did it even start?”

You're steaming and rambling, saying whatever comes to your mind without running it through your filter. You've got an odd look on your face, one that's totally unexpected. I'd figured you'd be taken aback, but this mouth gaping and flailing hands goes beyond that. It makes my stomach sink, my throat knot and my hope shatter. Trying to make sense of your reaction, I see it: you feel angry and scandalized.

I scratch at my jaw nervously. “I never meant for it to happen, but I-” I start but stop, searching your face for some kind of reprieve and not finding any. I'm starting to get upset myself now. You're being absurd and over the top. Really… am I that repulsive to you?

“How could you even intend to fall for  _her_?” You practically yell at me, shaking your head. “Come on, Mon-El! Lena Luthor?  _Really?_ You broke up with Eve for  _Lena_? She’s my best friend. You know she’s off limits!”

When I finally catch what you’ve just said, after a few stunned moments, I let out a loud bark of laughter. Since you just put my emotions through a rollercoaster, I don't check my words either. “You think… Lena? Oh, that's hilarious! You think I want  _Lena_? That's gotta be the worst joke I've ever heard from you. I mean, that's just- that's- that's-”

“That's just what?” You ask tentatively, slowly joining in my laughter.

“Unbelievable,” I eventually supply and I'm looking at you wildly, desperately. “It’s laughable.Don't you know me at all? I mean, come on! She’s like a sister to me!”

“God! You scared me!” You say and move toward me with a wine glass in each hand. I grab one and pull you toward me. You're looking so relieved it makes me wonder if you haven't figured it out already, and this is all just a ruse. However, your next words make it abundantly clear that no, you still don’t have a clue. “So, if it's not Lena, who is she? The only other person I can think of would be that blonde you work with. What's her name? I can’t quite remember it… It’s on the tip of my tongue… Di…” You scrunch your face in concentration, it's adorable. Everything you do lately is adorable; I'm so pathetic. _I hate myself._

“Dana,” I offer my co-worker's name. You like her, I know you don’t exactly disapprove of her, you disapprove of dating in the workplace – Mhmm, James? –, but that's another story – kettle and pot. Now, I'm more focused on you standing so close to me and the smell of your perfume – so achingly familiar but its effect on me entirely new – it's making my head spin. It’s intoxicating. I'm holding my breath. “And no, it's not her either.”

You frown, visibly baffled. I frown, visibly disheartened. You have never given _us_ a thought. This is going to get very awkward, very quickly. Any vestiges of laughter vanish. I watch as my arm reaches out, like on auto pilot, my right hand grasping your glass of wine and placing it on the counter. I use it as an excuse to move closer to you still. Suddenly, our foreheads are touching. Our mouths impossibly near, yet so far away. We’re sharing the same air. My lips just a hair's breadth from yours. Our bodies are so, so close…

“Kara…” I whisper your name pleadingly.

And then… your eyes widen. Painted a blue I’ve never seen before.

Now you really do know.

“Oh.” You mumble. You start to back away, grasping my wrist in your thin fingers and dragging me away from you with a small push. You don't want me touching you. I try to make light of it but you're making it really hard. You're so serious. It feels out of place considering your previously bubbly mood.

“I don’t get it… I mean, why? How? When?I don't-” You stare, utterly still and dumbfounded. I open my mouth. Close it. Then you explode; your face fierce and red, shooting lasers out of your eyes. “What the actual fuck?!”

You never curse. You’ve just cursed at me. At least you don't ask if I'm joking, I wouldn't have been able to cope with that. I try to explain but it's hard to find the right words when I want to show you how I feel; it would be so much more effective. But it's you, and you never rest until you know the full scope of anything; you always claim it’s the reporter in you. And now I've told you, now you know, but you're still silent, staring at me with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. You blink. Once. Twice. Your crinkle makes an appearance as you look down at your feet.

“Please, say something. _Anything,”_ I beg, reaching out for your hand but you snatch it away like I've burnt you. You’re hurting me. So much.

“I have to go.” You make for the door and I swear I can feel you taking my heart with you. “I’m staying at Alex’s for a while.”

I should've known you wouldn't have taken it well, that I should've broken it to you gently. I regret all of it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Period. “Kara, please. Don’t leave. We need to talk.”

“ _We_ don't need to do anything.  _I_ need to get out of here because my best friend just told me he has feelings for me.” You stop and fix me with a level glare. “Why now? Huh? I have a date tomorrow with a great guy and you decide to throw this crap at me now. Now? You have the worst timing, Mon-El. I- I can’t even look at you.”

I follow you. I try again. I'm not ashamed of the desperation in my voice. I've ambushed you with this and you're rightly angry about that but I don't understand why you're shutting down. It's not like you to stay quiet – you tackle everything head on, figuring everything out as you go. I didn't dare hope for a glowing reception of my feelings but I expected more than you running away from me. “We do need to talk.”

“I have a datetomorrow, Mon-El. A  _date_. It’s like a foreign concept for me and until two minutes ago I was really looking forward to it. So please excuse me while I try to pull my head together and convince myself that the world didn't just stop spinning on its axis.”

“You're overreacting.” You are. You're being uncharacteristically unreasonable.

“My best friend telling me that he's fallen for me is kind of a huge deal.”

“Maybe, it is. But it's not the end of the world surely. I can't be that disgusting to you.” I know better than to press for answers now. You don't respond well to someone pushing you and you're fighting back. I can’t let you leave like this.

You stammer a lukewarm goodbye. Then you're gone, the door slamming behind you.

I'm more gutted than I can properly say.

I give in to melodrama and flop down onto the couch, staring at my half-finished glass of wine. I don't know how long I stay there for, must be noon when I finally get up.

* * *

 

It’s been a whole week. You haven’t returned to the loft. Alex stops by every once in a while to pick up stuff for you. There are only a few more days before your birthday. I've been putting off calling you in the hopes you'll contact me – although, you've made it perfectly clear you don't want to speak to me. It's confirmed when I'm put through to voicemail after just one ring.

“I was only calling to let you know that I’m moving out. I don't want to upset you anymore than I already have. Besides, this is your loft, you should be the one living in it. I just-” Brevity is surely best for the both of us. I'm not going to make this more painful, and it's harder to make the call than I'm willing to admit. “Happy Birthday, Kara.”

* * *

 

It’s the afternoon before your birthday party and I show up at Alex and Maggie’s house. I plan on leaving the keys of the loft, some things you left in my car and your birthday present with Alex. You should be at work now. I should be safe. Considering my luck lately, you answering the door the door shouldn’t really surprise me. But it does. Your laugh cuts off instantly when you see me. I'm almost positive you were talking to your sister about me, which is confirmed by the look of your respective faces as I step inside. Maggie offers me a beer but I decline, much to her surprise. She's so used to all of us being around each other that she's momentarily confused. I see her look to Alex, who's looking at me with empathy, and then to you. She may not know the whole story but she's already guessed that something isn't right between us. Of course it isn't if you're refusing to raise your eyes from the floor. I’d give anything to look into your comet-eyes one last time.

“I just came to drop these off, I’ll get out of your hair now…” I explain, handing the box to Alex. “Happy Birthday, Kara!” I wish you again, sincerely. You still won’t meet my gaze. I turn to leave with my tail between my legs, mourning not only my feelings towards you but the fact that I've lost my best friend. My family. I round the corner and you're finally looking at me but with such a distraught look, I struggle to keep the tears at bay.

I fail.

* * *

 

I’m crashing at Winn’s for the time being. Thirty minutes in of sitting there the feeling of homesickness becomes too suffocating, so I decide to go out. I don't know where I'm going but I know I can't be anywhere that reminds me of you. That rules out almost everywhere in a twenty-mile radius. I open the front door with keys in hand and, like magic, there you are, hand raised as if about to knock.

“Hi,” I barely whisper as the breath gets sucked out of my lungs. A pause, before I barrel on, “I didn't mean to intrude before. I just wanted to drop off that stuff and I didn't know you were going to be there. You were meant to be at CatCo. I don't-”

“Mon-El,” you interrupt me, thankfully. I could've gone on for a while otherwise. “It's okay. I didn't plan on being there myself, I just decided to take the day off and, yeah- well-” But then you trail off and I don't know what to say or do, I don't know why you're here or what it means. I don’t dare to hope. “I shouldn't have cut you out like that. I should’ve discussed it with you. It was wrong of me, I'm sorry.” You don't tell me this, you tell your shoes. But the fact that you've uttered the words means a lot. It was such misery sitting at home – our home – alone. I don't know what to say. I'm conscious of the fact that if I move towards you, you're likely to cut and run again. If I say anything, it'll probably come out wrong and I don't want that because I truly, desperately, want to know what you're doing here. So, I settle with a hugely inadequate, “It’s okay.” You look at me intently – _comets –_ , not saying anything, but this silence is stretching on for too long and I don't know what you want from me. Any rehearsed speech I'd made up in my mind in the last week is quickly discarded – it wouldn't do. It'd be too awkward and until very recently, nothing about us has ever been awkward. We know each other better than we know ourselves.

“This changes _everything_ , do you realize that?” You start suddenly, eyes bright. _“Everything.”_

Talk about understatements. “I know and you’re right. I had the worst possible timing. I apologize for that. So…” I'm dying to know how your date went. I'm preparing myself to hear that the date went brilliantly and that you're now officially a couple. I think you know that's where my thoughts are tending because you stop me by holding up a finger.

“Don't,” you say, and it's only when I look at you – notice how impossibly blue your eyes seem – that I notice you're on the verge of tears. You turn away. I follow you onto the couch and sit and wait. Seconds. Eons. I can’t tell. “What do you want from me?”

It's a fair question. One I was asking myself, to be honest. I didn't say too much the other day. On reflection, I didn't actually tell you how I feel about you – simply saying 'there's someone else' as to why I broke off a relationship doesn't encompass the full extent of my feelings for you. My near-muted declaration doesn't even scratch the surface. I feel so much. Too much. I don’t think I can put it into words. Still, I make lackluster attempt. “I want all of you. I don't want to be your friend anymore, it's not enough.” I take a deep breath and say it, because it needs to be said or I may regret never telling you. “I'm in love with you.”

The words hang in the air and you seem to visibly deflate in front of me. Your shoulders slouch forward. You frown, your forehead contracts and you rub at the point above your right eyebrow – at your crinkle. I've given you a headache. I listen to you inhale shakily and curse myself. This is obviously hard on you, and from that I gather you don't return my feelings. I won't hold it against you. I won't make it any worse for you. I'll be a man and get on with my life, move on – even if it seems impossible.

“Please, don't cry. I hate to see you cry.” I don't realize I've said this aloud until you start to laugh, and then you do start to cry, wiping away your tears with a shaking hand. You look at me and something about me sets you off again. You’re laughing and crying, crying and laughing, and I’m confused.

As if testing the waters, you take a deep breath and look me in the eye. “I went on that date.”

“Oh.” Suddenly I don't want to know how it went.

You nod absentmindedly. “He ordered for me.” We've done this before. Deconstructed each other's dates, given our opinions on whether this or that person is a keeper or a loser. Inevitably and eventually, they always end up having some unforgiveable flaw that relegates them to the loser bin.

I shrug. “Mmm, let me guess. He ordered an overly pretentious dish, trying too hard to impress you.”

“He did. He ordered Escargot.” You visibly shudder at that.

I think I throw up in my mouth a little. “Poor snails. They deserved better.”

You smile wide. “He passed on dessert.”

“You're joking.”

“He doesn't like sports.”

“Is he even a man?”

“You'd think he broods too much.”

The look on my face says it all. “You'd be dating your sister-in-law. You could go on double dates.”

“That's exactly what I thought. As much as I do love Maggie, I don't want to date my sister-in-law,” you admit quietly. I take a step closer to you. You mirror my movements, and I'm trying to calm my nerves. My index finger scratching at my jaw again. “He called me when I was at Alex’s. He asked me out again, to have dinner tonight.” You're now looking at me knowingly. I gulp. “I told him it wasn't going to work out.”

“Really?”

“Really,” you assert, reaching for me. “You see, there's someone else… and I kept comparing James to him.”

I'm squeezing your hand tightly encased in mine. My heart is galloping out of my chest. “Tell me, what's he like?”

“He is the funniest guy I’ve ever met. Annoyingly jovial. Crazy smart. Simple and modest. Total bookworm. Makes a delicious breakfast. He, conveniently, likes the same sports as me. He shares his dessert with me. He can be a total grumpy-pants when he wants to be but he's quite possibly the most generous person I know. He's- he's my best friend and I've really missed him, and I can't believe I didn't know what was in front of me all this time. I can't stand the thought of not being with him, if he'll have me.”

For a second, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don't need to ask if you're sure. You never would’ve come here and said any of this if you weren't certain that this is what you want. _Us._ Perhaps I could've been a little less eager in grabbing you, and a bit gentler in holding you against me, but I've wanted to do this for what feels like ages. You're almost a head shorter than me, so when I bend down to kiss you, you reach up on your tip-toes, your arms already around my shoulders, kissing me back just as hungrily and passionately. Things escalate quickly and that mewling sound you're making, the half-sigh and half-cry as you press yourself against me, quickly becomes my new favorite sound. Thank goodness our loft is only around the corner, as we quickly make our way home.

_Home._

* * *

It's the next morning and we've just woken up. You grin at me, your hair tangled and sprawled across my pillow. It amazes me how quickly we've adapted to our new relationship, as if we've always fallen asleep and awoken beside each other, as if we weren't nothing more than friends for years and years. It feels so natural, easy; we don’t even have to try.

If I have to be thankful for something in this life, is _this_. _You_. You in my arms. Waking up next to you. Being with you. I can never thank you enough, for making me this happy. Well, I can at least try by filling every minute of your life with the same happiness.

“What do you wanna do today?” I ask you, gently stroking your hair.

“I know we can’t stay here forever. But can we stay a little while longer?”

“For how long?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I laugh. “Woman of tomorrow.”

**_The End_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!  
> I'll see you soon!  
> PS. I might have gotten a bit inspired by Chandler Bing's hatred of this holiday.


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